


Caution to the Wind

by flashofthefuse



Category: Miss Fisher's Murder Mysteries
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-30
Updated: 2017-05-30
Packaged: 2018-11-06 22:35:51
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,070
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11045748
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/flashofthefuse/pseuds/flashofthefuse
Summary: I thought I was done with stories on this subject, but a recent rewatch of the final episode of S3 dragged this from me.





	Caution to the Wind

**Author's Note:**

> I thought I was done with stories on this subject, but a recent rewatch of the final episode of S3 dragged this from me.

He arrived well in advance of his scheduled shift, as he always did. Even in the early days. Before he’d made Detective Inspector and earned himself an office.

Back then he’d use the time to look over the arrest sheets and familiarize himself with who was in the cells and why, (a practice he carried on with to this day). He’d start a fresh pot and, if the previous shift had been a chaotic one, he’d straighten the front desk area in preparation for the change-over. Jack liked to start with as clean a slate as possible, and once he was officially on-duty, there was rarely enough time for issues of housekeeping.

When those menial duties were no longer part of his responsibilities, he still arrived early. Not just to get a jump on the day, but sometimes to escape his home. First, because of the discord, later because of the quiet.

His early arrivals now were just a matter of habit.

He no longer minded the quiet of his home and that discord that had driven him from it was long in the past. Although, somewhat recently, it had been replaced by a new type of discord—one he, oddly enough, had come to enjoy.

This new, exciting source of dissonance had been gone nearly three weeks now, and already it felt an eternity. He could stand the quiet at home. It was the quiet here, at the station, that nettled.

At any given moment he expected her to sweep through the door, command her position on the corner of his desk and turn his world thrillingly upside down. It was addictive—that adrenaline rush she provided.

It wasn’t that he was idle. Nothing had fundamentally changed. There was still plenty of mayhem and even the occasional murder to contend with, what was missing was the fun.

He shook his head. _It’s not supposed to be fun, Robinson_ , he chided himself.

Still. It wasn’t suppose to be this unsatisfying either.

As a boy he’d craved adventure. Whenever he could, he’d hop on his bicycle and pedal into exploits fueled by his imagination. He was an explorer, traveling ancient lands, making fantastic discoveries; or a cowboy, riding the plains. He roamed far, fought fearsome beasts and even, on occasion, rescued a fair maiden in distress.

When he was older he’d gone to war out of a sense of duty, but there was a small part of him—that adventure seeking boy—that looked on it with a sense of wonder and excitement. Even some of the recruitment posters touted a _‘free trip to Europe’_ as incentive, and as someone that had never before left the continent—hell, he’d never been farther than Ballarat—the invitation was alluring.

Leaving Australia that first time, on a ship surrounded by like-minded men, all answering their country’s call to protect the homeland, he’d felt a thrill. The thrill of adventure, uncertainty and even fear.

The fear was exhilarating in its own way. And in the end it was the fear that would serve him best.

It was a funny thing, fear. For some it was paralyzing. Rendering men thoughtless and incapable of action. For them, fear was often deadly.

Then there were the ones without fear—or rather, numb to it. They sometimes fared better by nature of sheer bravado and dumb luck, but Jack saw many of them fall, and too often, take countless others with them.

For Jack, the fear kept him sharp, made him careful.

When he found himself in a position of responsibility for other men, some so young they weren’t even shaving, it was his healthy respect for fear that he relied on to keep them safe.

But war is chaos, and care not always an option. A determined enemy requires swift action, often undertaken with too little information. The results could be deadly.

That’s what nearly broke him. The requirement to act despite a fear that begged caution. The lives he’d taken ate at him, but worse still were the lives he’d lost.

It was the burden of a command that had been forced upon him, and it had left him bitter and angry. It had killed his boyish dreams of adventure. Or, at least buried them deep.

One of the reasons he now stayed where he was, with no desire to rise further in the ranks than Detective Inspector, was the level of command his position afforded him. Yes, he had men he was responsible for, and he sometimes had to put them in harm's way, but never alone—not if he could help it.

He vowed he’d never sit at a desk and command from a safe distance. He’d be right alongside, where he could most control the situation. Where he could listen, but never give in, to the fear. Where he could always step in front.

It was serious business keeping streets clean and men safe. He carried out that business with resolve and, after time and success, even a bit of arrogance, but never lightly. Never for fun or adventure.

That’s what he’d thought she was looking for, when they first met.

He’d pegged her for a bored socialite seeking intrigue to fill her dull days. These wealthy, entitled women, especially the ones as attractive as she, seemed to think the world was their playground and everything in it meant to amuse them.

Her analysis of that first crime scene had been surprisingly astute. Obviously she had an intellect beyond what was expected of her, which made her flippant attitude all the worse, as far as he was concerned.

Intelligent women had opportunities these days. Not as many as men—even the duller ones—but enough that many women had taken advantage.

They were working in important jobs, going to school, becoming doctors even. This woman, though clearly bright, seemed the type that would be content to swan through her days in search of entertainment.

Her good looks and flirtatious manner would no doubt make her a thorn in some man’s side, but not his. He had no intention of taking her remotely seriously.

When she came gunning for Butcher George, his impression changed slightly. Apparently, she was a flapper with a moral compass. Good on her. Still, he’d wished her luck and hoped he’d seen the last of her.

Little did he know, that not two years later, she’d have become as essential to his being as air. Well, that might be overstating things, just a bit. He did sometimes trend toward the melodramatic.

He didn’t need her to live, but she’d provided a spark that had reignited flames long ago smothered. She’d somehow found the dry tinder that had fueled his boyhood sense of adventure and set it ablaze again. Even now, in her absence, it smoldered.

But, she was more than just an exciting jolt to his system. She’d also become his place of rest. The contradiction was sometimes difficult to reconcile, but true nonetheless.

In the end he’d waited just a little too long. He’d let the fear steer him to an abundance of caution. She might be the sun, but he was no Icarus. He would leave that to other men, and be content to bask in her warmth from a distance, without the risk.

He’d realized too late how wrong he’d been. He should have trusted her more. Should have known that she’d never let him fall.

Looking at her that last night, her own eyes on a shooting star, he knew he’d never forget her, but he vowed he wouldn’t regret her either. He’d wanted to tell her then, but the words stuck in his throat.

That’s what had driven him to that field that next morning. The need to see her one last time. To say thank you. I love you. Goodbye.

At first he was afraid he was too late. Again. The propeller was spinning on the front of the frighteningly small aircraft, its passengers already tucked into their seats. He contented himself with the idea that he’d be able to watch her go. At least that would make it real.

She’d surprised him then. Dismounting the plane and running toward him—which had made him run too—or maybe he’d started first—who could remember such details when the words she spoke had turned his world upside down again.

_“Come after me.”_

Everything he had planned to say once again got stuck, so he’d made his feelings clear and expressed his gratitude the only way he could.

He kissed her.

To thank her for bringing excitement back to his days, for being the best partner in work and in life he’d ever known, and finally—and most improbably— for letting him love her.

After that, he’d been able to watch her leave with peace in his heart.

But, as the days went on without her, he discovered that peace was over-rated and quiet was dull.

He still got up early, came to work and did his job, but the luster was gone.

Not for the first time, he pulled his atlas from the shelf to trace her intended route. He imagined what she might be seeing, the people she’d meet, the foods she would taste.

Also not for the first time, he wondered. He wondered if she’d meant it literally.

He hadn’t thought so at the time, had taken it for her round-about way of telling him how much she cared. It wasn’t a promise or even a dare. He was sure it was a sincere and open invitation, but only a wishful one. She had to know it wasn’t really possible, even as she’d asked it.

But what if it was? What if he could make it possible? Request a leave. He’d certainly earned one, and some time away might be just what he needed to bring back the drive he was having trouble finding these days.

If it was possible. If it could be done, would he dare? Would she welcome him if he did?

If he showed up at her door—with her as his only destination, his only desire to be allowed along on her adventures—would she be thrilled, or would the mercurial Phryne Fisher have already forgotten him and moved on? He was inclined to assume the latter and he didn't fault her for it.

A rap on his door startled him back to the present. He glanced at the clock and was shocked to see his shift had begun nearly an hour ago. He hurriedly tucked the atlas into a drawer, and opened one of the many file folders scattered over his desktop.

“Come in,” he called.

“Sorry, sir,” Collins said poking his head in, “I know you don’t like to be disturbed when you’ve got the door shut...”

“It’s all right, Constable,” Jack said, shuffling the papers a bit to try and look busy. “What is it?”

“We’ve had a call. Hank Benson is inebriated again and causing some trouble down at the market.”

“It’s not even nine in the morning!”

“Yes, sir.” Hugh said apologetically. “Want me to get hold of his wife to go pick him up?”

“No. Let’s give poor Margie a break. She’s got enough on her hands with those four little ones. Take Meyers and bring him back for a stint in the cells. I’ll have a talk with him later. Once he’s sobered up.”

Jack scrubbed a hand over his face. Is this what his days were to be? Reprimanding drunks? Hank was harmless, but a nuisance, mostly to his suffering spouse.

“Right,” Collins said “and before I forget, the post arrived. Something here for you. Looks personal.”

Jack’s heart rate increased. His name, written in her hand on the clean white envelope, felt almost like a caress. He slit the top open swiftly, but carefully, and slid the contents out into his palm.

It was a small photograph of Phryne, looking very much the hero aviatrix. She was surrounded by an excited group of dark skinned children, her trusty little plane behind her and majestic mountains rising in the distance.

He looked at her image for a long minute, even tracing her face with his fingertip. He checked the envelope again, but there was nothing else inside. He turned the photograph over and found her message.

> _The wide world awaits and it's glorious. When will you come?_

Jack smiled.


End file.
